Ohio Northern University - Northern Yearbook (Ada, OH)

Page 30 text:

THE DEAR LATIN PONY B v Pokticus Equus Parvus. (Dedicated to Professor Henry Whitworth, i How desr to my heart are the stories of Caesar, When fond recollection presents them to view! The Belgae. the Britons, the fierce |iiitani. And other strange tribes that my college days knew ! The Lake of Lemannus, the mount that stood by it. The bridge, and the ground where the soldiers have bled. The river Axona, the city just nigh it. And e’en the dear pony, we kept in the shed — The dear Latin pony, that swift, Latin pony. That much-ridden ponv we kept in the shed. That much-ridden pony, T hailed as a treasure. For often, at night, when returned from tlie school, I found him the source of an exquisite pleasure. When adverbs and nouns wouldn ' t all fit the rule. How ardent I rode him! My eyes, they were glowing.. (My knowledge of Latin within me was dead). Then soon, with translations of words overflowing. And foaming with Latin, was placed in the shed— The dear Latin pony, that swift Latin pony. That much-ridden pony was placed in the shed. How oft to the stable I wandered to see him! For miles I would ride thru the sleet and the rain : Sot e’en a professor could tempt me to leave him. How fragrant he was to my heart and my brain! But now, far removed from the temples of knowledge. With longings and wishes, T bow my sad head. My fancy reverts to the days of the college. And sighs for the pony we kept in the shed— The dear Latin pony, that swift Latin pony. That much-ridden pony, we kept in the shed. — Bernhard Ragner.

Page 29 text:

John J. Wade, A. E. Scotch Plains, N. J. Dickinson (Pa.) Preparatory School Centenary Collegiate Institute, N. J. Philo Literary Society Y. M. C. A. Says his nicknames arc “Myrtle, “Plato”, “Doc and “Nora”. Take your choice. Thornburg, B. sc Sew Vienna, Philo Literary Society Y. M. C. A. What is the object in keeping a steady new ones are so easily gotten?”

Page 31 text:

WRITING A LYRIC A N EPISODE IN THE PCETICS CLASS OF THE O. N. U. My teacher requires me to n-rite him a lyric About ' anything under the sun ; But the things that I write, let me try with my might — Are not worth a-when they’re done. The meter is halting; the rhythm is wobbly. And the words that I’m wanting to use Will not fit tlie rhyme ; Oh. I have such a time. It certainly doe.; beat the Jews! Now, poets like Shakespeare, Mertz and McMillen Are truly the pride of the earth ; They ' ve a corner on brains and in spite of my pains. My poetry dies at its birth. True poets are born —they are not manufactured In any poetical school. Getting blood from a turnip —making whistles from pig tails, Can ' t be done by any known rule. Then how can iny teacher expect to get lyrics From my brain when there ' s not any there? He ' ll expect mine tomorrow ! Life ' s nothing but sorrow. I shall snakebite myself in despair! But stop! let me look these lines over a minute — Death’s face is decidedly stern — Why. they ' re filled with emotion and —Great land of Goshen ! There ' s meter and rhyme there to burn ! All praise to my teacher! O, divine class. Poetics! The Victory, tlie VICTORY is won ! ' Tis plain I’m a poet —these verses will show it : Shout, ye Heavens, my lyric is clone! —Irving Garwood.